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MELVIN J. MESSER 



THE 



OLD PEWTER MUG 



AND OTHER POEMS 



Melvln .I.,.MESS£R .. 



• « • • • 



COPYRIGHT 1903 



CHICAGO 
H. S. RICH & COMPANY 

177 LA SALLE STREET 
1903 



tp 



\'^y 



LIBRARY of CONGRESS 




Two Copies Received 




DEC 26 1903 




, Copyright Entry 

h^' . ^ r - / ^ f 2 

CLASS a- XXc. No. 
COPY B 







••••••in • • •• 



PUBLISHERS' 

ANNOUNCEMENT 



In presenting this souvenir to the 
readers of The Western Brewer, the 
pubHshers wish to acknowledge their 
indebtedness to the author, Mr. Melvin 
J. Messer, for his many poetical contri- 
butions during the last decade. It was 
because of the hearty approval with which 
they have always been received that it 
was decided to reproduce them in accept- 
able form as a holiday contribution to 
the literature of the brewing industry. 

The Publishers. 

December, 1903. 



AUTHOR'S PREFACE 



During a life mainly spent among the cares, labor 
and worriment of business, it has been my cusf jm 
to solace myself and forget the petty annoyances of 
the day by indulging a natural propensity for rhym- 
ing. Whether the infliction of my verses upon the 
readers of the various papers and magazines in vs^hich 
they have appeared has been more of a hardship to 
them than it has a pleasure to me, I leave those 
readers to determine. 

A long connection with the brewing industry has 
led me to search the pages of the modern poets for 
lyrics deahng with the products of the brewer's art, 
and although many have sung in masterly fashion 
the praises of ale and beer, the examples are not 
numerous; and the ground, it seems to me, has been 
but imperfectly covered. Admiring, as I do, the energy 
and progressiveness of our modern brewers and the 
splendid results their ambition and resourcefulness 
have brought forth, it has been a labor of love with 
me to celebrate the nectar they create in verse, 
more or less faulty, doubtless, but at least sincere. 
These lyrics have appeared from time to time in the 
columns of The Western Brewer, and it has pleased 
the publishers of this remarkably well conducted 
journal to rescue them from their previous condition 
of fugitive pieces and collect them in the present 
tasteful and presentable shape. If they serve in the 
smallest degree to dignify, to beautify and to elevate 
the business in which my hopes and interests all are 
centered, I shall, indeed, be abundantly repaid. 

The Author. 
Charlestown, Mass., October i, 1903. 



DEDICATED 



TO THE 



BREWERS OF AMERICA 

AND TO ALL TRUE LOVERS OF 

"the barley BRE^" 



CONTENTS 

With Dates of Publication in The Western Brewer 



890) 



889) 



II, 

13* 



16, 



The Old Pewter Mug (February 

BiBO, Audio (October, 1890) . 

Barley Song (April, 1890) 

The Judge's Dream (July, 1903) 

On Brewery Walls (Ballade) (June, 1890) 

Rondeau (September, 1890) .... 

What They Drink (August, 1890) . . 

The Lesson of a Glass of Beer (December 

Hop Song (May, 1890) 

By What Right, Churchmen ? (January, 1 890) 

Feen-Marchen (March, 1890) . . . 

A Ballade of Beverages (July, 1890) 

In England, 1700 (March, 1891) 

Festina Lente (February, 1891) . • 

The Mantle of Gambrinus (December, 189 

An Episode (May, 1891) 

Phyllis and Gladys (September, 1903) . 

Chanson a Boire (October, 1903) . • 

Clubs (a Burletta) (November, 1903) 

A Grain of Barley from the Pyramids (December, 

1903) 



14 
15 

17 
18 

19 
20 
21 



23 
24 

25 
26 
27 
28 
29 
30 
31 
32* 33 

34 



THE OLD PEWTER MUG. 



Old and battered and dingy and dull, 

Dinted and worn by the buffets of time, 
Empty and leaky, useless and null, 

Was ever a subject less fitted for rhyme? 
Was ever a subject more homely and bald? 

Yet round it there cluster the mem'ries of years, 
The laughter that gladdened, the songs that enthralled. 

The rapture of living, the sighs and the tears. 

Many a draught of the good, nut-brown ale 

Foamed o'er its rim in the century gone ! 
Yeomen of England, so hearty and hale, 

Maidens as fair as the sun e'er shone on 
And rosy-cheeked children in life's golden morn. 

All quaffed and were glad ; but the years sped away. 
The mug crossed the ocean, a new world was born 

And the Puritan's lamp shed its light o'er the bay. 

Forests re-echoed with psalm and with prayer, 

Log huts arose, and the struggle began 
To live and to love and all burdens to bear 

For the Word and the truth and the freedom of man. 
The mug oft was dry and the larder stripped clean. 

Hunger and thirst did the Puritans know. 
Yet was their faith ever pure and serene, 

Firm and unswerving through weal and through woe. 

Settlements prospered and comforts increased. 

Maidens were wed and their children grew up; 
Thanksgiving day brought full many a feast. 

Never stood idle the tankard and cup. 
Pilgrims could drink and pilgrims could pray. 

Pray for good things and give thanks when they came. 
Use them discreetly and walk the straight way. 

Viewing excesses with sorrow and shame. 



Many a toast has been drunk from this mug, 

Toasts to the loved one, to friends, to success, 
In the old kitchen, so cosy and snug, 

Where shone the firelight to cheer and to bless. 
Liberty flowed in the foam-crested draught, 

Hatred of tyranny flavored the beer; 
Heroes it made of the reapers who quaffed; 

Cannons belched forth and the conflict was here ! 

Years of sore trial, of battle and blood. 

Of treachery, poverty, darkness and doubt, 
Dashed o'er their souls in tempestuous flood. 

But God fought beside them and hedged them about. 
The invader retired; independence was won. 

And liberty's flag floated free to the breeze. 
Feasting and song told that battle was done 

And the mug did its duty in days such as these. 

Time fled apace, and the mug, now grown old 

And battered and worn (as you've heard in my lay) 
Banished, disgraced, to a peddler was sold 

Till, from his stock, I redeemed it one day. 
Little by little its story I've learned, 

Out of old legends and histories dug; 
Years have rolled back and lost days have returned, 

Their glories revived by the old pewter mug. 




BIBO, AUDIO. 

Music affects the grateful ear, 

Something as drinks affect the palate, 

Or as the hungry eye finds cheer. 
In works of pencil, brush or mallet. 

The titillated nerve responds. 

And wider spreads the pleasant feeling. 

Till every fiber feels the bonds 
So gently o'er the senses stealing. 

Thus, when I taste the ginger pop. 

Or through a straw sip new-made cider, 

They bear a tune in every drop. 

Just as a horse might bear his rider. 

I hear the country fiddler's voice, 
And feet of dancers money-musking, 

"Girls, form your sets now, ladies' choice," 
And jigs and reels make glad the husking. 

Champagne, bright sparkling in the glass, 
Brings thoughts of opera bouffe instanter, 

To liveliest strains each shapely lass 
Flies round the stage at nimble canter. 

Poor Offenbach is dead and gone. 
And what a motley crowd comes after ! 

Yet still the merrv tunes roll on 
With brilliant lights and limbs and laughter. 

13 



Amontillado wets my tongue, 

And, like the summer raindrops' sprinkle, 
Around on perfumed air is flung. 

The soft guitar's ecstatic tinkle. 

And mandolins and castanets 

Tell tales of warm, voluptuous pleasure, 
As Spanish beauties (dangerous pets) 

Dance to the peace-destroying measure. 

With English ale flow lusty strains. 

As "Hearts of Oak" each voice unlimbers, 

"God Save the Queen" to heaven attains 
And fairly rocks the massive timbers. 

Around Tom Bowling's ancient shrine 

The baritones tumultuous rally. 
While amorous tenor swains combine, 

Discoursing "Sally in Our Alley." 

And, lastly, when in Kaiser-Bier 

I drown my cares, my griefs, my worries. 

Rings high the German student-cheer. 
And chorus after chorus scurries. 

The glasses clink, the songs resound. 

The smoke-wreaths rise and float above me, 

Here, waiter, quick! another round. 
And bring some pretzels if you love me. 




BARLEY SONG. 

Sweet is the matin voice of birds 

At early dawn in summer weather ; 
Sweet are the bells of distant herds 

At twilight coming home together. 
And sweet the brooklet's pearly note 

Adown the rocky hollows leaping; 
But sweeter yet the songs that float 

In winds o'er fields of barley sweeping. 

I love to list, 'mid insect's hum, 

While quails are piping in the meadows, 
As o'er the hills the reapers come. 

And shorter grow the morning shadows. 
To music of the rustling grain 

And dream of all the coming pleasure. 
When we its life juice oft shall drain 

And revel in its amber treasure. 



Then, as with keen delight we drink 

The sparkling nectar, foamy-crested. 
While songs go 'round and glasses clink, 

And every draught's with joy invested, 
I still shall hear, in fitful wise, 

The piping quail, the brooklet's flowing, 
The insects' hum in chorus rise 

With winds across the barley blowing. 

, j5 




THE JUDGE'S DREAM. 



The ancient judge passed to the ease and quiet 

Of his small study on the second floor, 
Where he oft fed his soul on mental diet 

Purveyed by caterers of the days of yore. 
The shelves were lined with volume upon volume 

From Xenophon to Zangwill on the Jews, 
And rows of books in serried, solid column, 

Here quartos and there journals and reviews. 

A Shakespeare lay upon the oaken table, 
A Dickens stood upon a nearby shelf; 

The judge saw neither, he was barely able 
To sink into a chair and fan himself. 

All day had liquor cases come to bore him, 
A brewery strike was next upon the list; 

What irony they should be brought before him. 

An old-time, ramrod prohibitionist! 

"I wish the whole d d thing was sunk forever," 

He said, "and that 'twas wholly blotted out 
From books, from life, returning never, never! 

The world would prosper then, beyond a doubt." 
The scent of flowers was wafted on the breezes, 

The buzz of bees up thro' his casement crept. 
The day was one which every torment eases; 

He rested in his Morris chair and slept. 

He dreamed an angel came and took his treasures. 

His precious books, that seemed a part of him, 
That aye had been among his chiefest pleasures. 

Dismembered them, and tore them limb from limb. 
Each line, each word that told of drink or drinking 

Of wine, of ale, of liquor or of beer. 
He cut, destroyed, demolished quick as winking, 

And, O ! what devastation then was here. 

i§ 



His Dickens was a thing of shreds and tatters, 

His Shakespeare was a sight to rend the soul ; 
The poets were like leaves the fierce wind scatters, 

And e'en the Bible was not wholly whole. 
A wail went up amidst the immolation, 

As when a Dryad's limbs were rudely torn : 
The conscious volumes felt the desecration 

And mournful lay, disheveled and forlorn. 

A mighty wave of shame and grief and choler 

Swept o'er the judge, and from his lips there broke 
The protest of the bibliophile, the scholar. 

He started up in fury — and awoke. 
His books were there, untroubled and in order, 

The setting sun streamed redly on the floor. 
The purpling grapes glowed on the vineyard's border, 

A brewer's dray went lumbering by the door. 




17 



ON BREWERY WALLS. 

( Ballade. ) 

On brewery walls no longer would I see 
The clumsy trade-marks of a bygone day, 

Such as the canny Scot, the Briton free. 
The well fed German favoreth alway: 
No broad Gambrinus should thereon display 

The mighty paunch that slimmer folk appalls, 
No ramping unicorn, in grim array, 

His fabled horn exalt on brewery walls. 

No pomp of heraldry enthroned should be, 
Nor yet to simple lettering would I pay 

My homage; but would issue forth decree 
That cunning artist hands, in loveliest way, 
Whether on brick, or wood, or granite gray. 

Should paint, where first the morning sunlight falls. 
The dove and olive branch, fit sign to stay 

And shed its benison on brewery walls. 

Fit sign, indeed, to mate the "barley bree" 
With meaning deep, and to the world convey 

That peace, good fellowship, prosperity 
Are found where'er the beer-god holdeth sway. 
Black hatred, strife and war all flee away; 

The waves recede, the rainbow hope installs, 
And every heart throbs out a joyous lay 

To see the emblem shine on brewery walls. 



ENVOI. 

Brewers, incline your ears to me, I pray; 

To custom be no longer hopeless thralls, 
Nor heed the long-eared critic's dismal bray 

At dove and olive branch on brewery walls. 

18 



RONDEAU. 

Bring me the glass. My storm-tossed soul is fain 
To lave itself within the tranquil seas, 
Where strife is not, but only grateful ease, 

And light, swift fancies, wearying not the brain. 

Ah, sweet nepenthe! thou shalt still the pain 
Of hfe's sharp battle and the stings that tease 
When love is fickle and the goal one sees 

So near at first fades o'er the darkening main; 
Bring me the glass. 

Yet let no blood-like wine its rim bestain ; 

Madness and loathing hide within its lees. 
The sparkhng, amber juice of ripened grain 
And wholesome bitter of the hop— they twain— 

Deftly commingled, shall my thirst appease; 
Bring me the glass. 



WHAT THEY DRINK. 

The Scotchman loves his Islay blend, 
The Celt his "Mountain Dew," 

John Crapaud sips his thin Bordeaux, 

John Bull his juice of Oporto — 
A heady wine, that, too. 

The Hollander imbibes much gin, 

The Tartar swills kumyss, 
The Pole and Hun adore Tokay, 
While Rheinwein flagons all the day 

Germania's fair lips kiss. 

The Southrons take their Bourbon straight, 

The Yankees Medford rum, 
The Cubans guzzle Santa Cruz, 
And Russians brandy can't refuse, 

All over Christendom. 

The Spaniard sherry wine esteems, 

The prohibitionist 
Wets down his poor, misguided clay 
With aqua pura (hopeless jay. 

He never will be missed). 

These drinks are all quite well, sweet friends. 

To comfort, soothe and cheer. 
But none can fill the weary breast 
With deep contentment, peace and rest, 

As can the foaming beer. 



S9 



THE LESSON OF A GLASS OF BEER. 

{Ganjymede, solus.) 

Life is the crystal goblet that I grasp 
And hold beneath the silver faucet's nose. 

Time, the check spring that nimbly I unclasp, 
And joy, or grief, the liquid that outflows. 

The snowy foam that mantles o'er the glass. 
Is the exuberance of youthful days ; 

Pleasure supreme, elusive, soon to pass, 
Leaving the flat, stale beer no man can praise. 

Small troubles, cares and sorrows are the motes. 
The broken hop leaves and stray seeds that vex 

The tapster's soul, that on sheer fineness dotes. 
And him with many a doubt and fear perplex. 

Excessive bitterness, though pure the draught 
(That is the wholesome discipline of fate), 

Or sweetness without intermission quaffed 
(Monotony of fortune's tranquil state). 

Give captious customers rare cause for fault. 
But all their plaints I silence with this saw, 

The Master Brewer from th' Eternal Vault 
Deals out this drink by His, not mortal law. 

Be satisfied, O man, give thanks and sip. 
Pull out thy purse and pay thy reckoning clear, 

Speak words of courage, peace, good fellowship; 
Such is the lesson of a glass of beer. 



SJ 




HOP SONG. 

Roses are sweet; their odor steeps our senses 
In languorous dreams of soft, voluptuous hours, 

And gives our eyes, as through enchanted lenses, 
Visions at will of June's delicious bowers. 



Violets are sweet; fragrant and unassuming, 
Children of rocky glades and woodland ways; 

Wooed by the springtide winds, and brightly blooming, 
While yet the snow-chill lingers through the days. 

Lilies are sweet; clothed in the robes of heaven, 
They lift their heads in purity serene; 

Emblems of life beyond, to mortals given ; 
Cecilia's flowers, well fit for music's queen. 

Hops are not sweet ; their fragrance ill would mingle 
In blended nosegays, or reward the quest 

Of him who forth a royal flower would single 
To scatter perfume on a lady's breast. 

But pure and wholesome as the breeze of morning. 

Balsamic as the odors of the pines ; 
The clusters fair, their slender stems adorning, 

Breathe health's aroma through the clinging vines. 

And when their essence in the cup shall sparkle. 
And foaming beer shall make the weak heart strong, 

When lights shall glow, and evening shadows darkle. 
We'll sound the praises of the hop in song. 



3S 




BY WHAT RIGHT, CHURCHMEN? 



By what right, churchmen, ye of narrow creed 

And wide phylactery, in measured speech, 
Do ye deny humanity's prime need 

And place in utter darkness, out of reach 
Of all sweet offices of Christian faith, 

Those who like not your churches and your priests. 
Your close communion, and the look which saith, 

Get ye without, and consort with the beasts? 

Your temples choke them with their stifling air, 

Their charnel smells and death-in-life repose. 
Whereto your preachers every week repair 

To tell to Him whose piteous blood still flows. 
His duty; and instruct Him in the dire 

Damnation that His strong right arm should deal, 
The blood, the slaughter and the lakes of fire 

That all mankind save them, th' elect, must feel. 

Shall not the man who travels straight the road 

That leads through weal and woe to life beyond. 
In thankfulness to God for gifts bestowed. 

In constant faith and adoration fond, 
In deeds of charity to men unknown. 

In secret orisons, by men unheard, 
Who knows no church, no creed, but rests alone 

On the sheer fastness of his God's own word ; — 

Shall not he taste the crystal draught that flows 

From out the stricken rock for all mankind? 
He who was gen'rous, even to his foes. 

Who dried the orphan's tears and led the blind. 
Who held the cup of water, in Christ's name. 

To lips that thirsted; shall he writhe and burn, 
While ye, white-robed, look placid on the flame 

From heaven's high palaces, without concern? 




FEEN-MARCHEN." 



In childhood's days, when elves and fays were real, 

When wide-eyed wonder walked with me alway, 
When goblin myths and marv'lous tales ideal 

Haunted my nights and filled my head by day. 
My strongest faith (and even now it tarries) 

Was pinned upon the deeds beneficent 
Of kindly, busy, dainty little fairies, 

Who came o' nights and at the cock-crow went. 

They changed the poor boy's attic, cold and dreary. 

Into a glowing scene of warmth and light. 
They filled the slumbers of the toiler weary, 

With charming dreams of fortune and delight. 
They did the work the tired maid was dreading. 

They brought the sighing lover hope and joy. 
They made more merry yet the peasant's wedding. 

And filled with sweet unrest the maiden coy. 



I still believe, as I have said, in fairies 

That love mankind and strive our lives to cheer. 

That make us all their beneficiaries ; — 
They dwell in every foaming glass of beer, 

They lightly dance upon the sparkling liquor 
And calm our restless souls with gentle wile. 

Renew our strength and make our hearts beat quicker 
Give truce to care, and cause e'en grief to smile. 



S4 



A BALLADE OF BEVERAGES. 



Throat-tickling vintage of fair Champagne, 

Thou art, for certain, a false, false friend; 
Heating the young blood, firing the brain. 

Scattering wits to the world's farthest end. 
Does frail woman trust thee? Heaven forefend! 

Each glittering drop will be matched by a tear. 
Each sip by a sigh that her bosom will rend; 

There is no beverage so blessed as beer. 

Distillate fragrant of tropical cane, 

Whether Jamaica or Santa Cruz lend 
Flavor and strength to thee, oft and again 

We in the punch-bowl thy spirit shall blend. 
Pineapple, lemon and orange shall spend 

Their juices delicious. Hark! What do I hear? 
"My head, O, my head!" ('Tis next morn, comprehend?) 

There is no beverage so blessed as beer. 

Essence seductive of grape or of grain, 

Eau de vie, usquebaugh, Bourbon, attend ! 
Ye for deception and fraud I arraign. 

Ye on swift punishment well may depend. 
Put down shall ye be, for such is my trend. 

Though for my viscera much do I fear. 
Would that my habits of life I could mend ; 

There is no beverage so blessed as beer. 



ENVOI. 

Princes, as onward your journeys ye wend, 
Accept my advice if ye look for good cheer. 

And tie to your heartstrings the message I send- 
There is no beverage so blessed as beer. 



25 



IN ENGLAND, 1700. 

The nut-brown maid stood 'neath the pent, 

While creaked the tavern si^ ; 
From out the tap-room came the scc;nt 

Of punch and hot mulled wme. 
Her eyes were hazel, and her hair 

Of sunniest chestnut braid ; 
O ! never was a lass more fair 

Than was the nut-brown maid. 

A cavalier drew hasty rein, 

And checked his foam-flecked steed, 
His blood flowed faster through each vein 

When he the ^irl did heed. 
''O pretty one," to her he cried, 

"With toil and thirst I fail. 
Go, bring me quick thy master's pride — 

A mug of nut-brown ale." 

Under the pent again she stood 

While deep the rider quaffed. 
And in her brown cheek glowed the blood 

And 'neath their lashes laughed 
Her hazel eyes to meet his look, 

And Cupid did prevail, 
For many a draught of love he took. 

And only one of ale. 



FESTINA LENTE. 



The poet seized in haste his pen, 

His brain with glowing fancies teeming. 
He dipped it in the ink and then 

A glory o'er the page came streaming 
For just one stanza. There he stuck; 

His "Ode to Friendship, Peace and Plenty" 
Seemed born to mischief and hard luck 

With just one chance for life in twenty. 

His wild eyes rolled in dumb despair. 

The muse was deaf to supplication; 
He strode the room, he tore his hair, 

Then bellowed like a bull of Bashan. 
At length there shot athwart the night 

A cheering ray of brilliant luster, — 
"Go bring me wine in goblets bright, 

Around' it sparkling fancies cluster." 

Now coursed new vigor through his veins, 

His pen frisked nimbly o'er the paper, 
To Pegasus he gave the reins, 

And shorter grew his midnight taper. 
He paused at last, the song was done, 

'Twas brimming o'er with love's sweet trances : 
Of peace and friendship there was none, 

But war and passionate romances. 

He tore the parchment shred by shred, 

He cooled his fevered brow, and slumbered 
Till smiling morn her fragrance shed 

And all the hours of night were numbered. 
Then, with a foaming tankard nigh, — 

Emblem of friendship, peace and plenty. 
He wrote an ode that ne'er will die. 

Take counsel, bards. Festina lente. 

2T 




THE MANTLE OF GAMBRINUS. 

Kind charity's said to cover 

A multitude of sins, 
But, all the wide world over, 

Chiefly at home begins 

(And ends there, too). So wins 
The tongue that doth malign us. 

And wisdom round him pins 
The mantle of Gambrinus. 



Through it no poisoned arrow 

Of slander finds its way. 
No lies our souls to harrow, 

No insults to repay. 

Though cold and bleak the day. 
All smiling we resign us. 

And warm and peaceful stay 
'Neath the mantle of Gambrinus. 



No hate of man nor brother, 

No envy finds a place ; 
Malice and every other 

Discordance hides its face. 

Plus is each saving grace. 
Each moral blemish minus 

Within the kind embrace 
Of the mantle of Gambrinus. 



AN EPISODE. 

Life is uncertain, and so is wealth. 

And so is position and other things, 
But honest labor and robust health 

Are riches that tarry and take not wings. 
The broadcloth coat and the varnished boot 

To-day may laugh at the toiler's jeans, 
To-morrow be changed for the convict's suit 

And the gold-bowed glasses frame sterner scenes. 

A fat, sleek banker came down the street, 

And a tall, pale broker walked by his side 
With stately carriage, as was most meet. 

With pious coldness and godly pride. 
Each Sunday saw them the church within, 

And heard their coin in the plate to clink. 
Their lives were flawless, free from sin, 

And neither was ever known to drink. 

A workman's daughter ran out in haste 

With pitcher in hand for the noonday beer, 
For not a mouthful the man would taste 

Till foamed in his goblet the liquor clear. 
She ran plump into the banker stout. 

Nearly carrying him off his pins, 
Causing some language not half devout. 

As well as a pair of abraded shins. 

"Pest on these sots!" cried the two as one— 

"Dirty, contemptible, soaked in beer. 
Pest on the brewers, father and son. 

On drinking and drinkers ! God help us clear 
Each brewery and beer shop away from our land." 

And onward they hurried to office and bank. 
But the workman smiled as he took from the hand 

Of his daughter the pitcher, and joyful drank. 

Next day the banker, disguised, fled the town. 

And his bank went to ruin, stripped to a cent. 
Widows and orphans God's curses called down, 

And clamored and wept round the door whence he went. 
The broker eloped with a deacon's young wife, 

Leaving his margins decidedly queer. 
The air with disaster and failure is rife, 

But the workman's daughter still goes for the beer. 
29 



PHYLLIS AND GLADYS. 

{A Study.) 

Phyllis wears a cool, white lawn, 

Gladys shines in silk; 
Phyllis' face is tanned and brown, 

Gladys' white as milk. 
Phyllis' eyes are Saxon blue, 

Gladys' glint of Spain; 
Phyllis likes a foaming stein, 

Gladys sips champagne. 

Phyllis loves the birds and flowers. 

Courts the mountain breeze ; 
Gladys in a hammock lies 

Underneath the trees. 
Phyllis likes a moonlight walk 

Down a quiet lane ; 
Gladys seeks the ball-room's crush, 

Diamonds — and champagne. 

Both the maids are very fair, 

One has gold, as well; 
Yet down in mv heart I feel. 

Why I scarce can tell, 
Life were happier, better far. 

With Phyllis to remain 
And quaff her beer, than Gladys choose, 

And riches — and champagne. 



80 



CHANSON A BOIRE. 

The sunlight's cup the lilies drain 

And roses sip the dew, 
The thirsty earth drinks deep of rain, 

Then shines with splendor new. 
The bee drinks honey from the flower, 

Deer seek the river's brink ; 
Examples such have muckle power 

And why should we not drink ? 

On us the sparkling barley bree 

Its blessed moisture sheds ; 
A benison, rich, full and free, 

Descendeth on our heads. 
What though yon clock the hours shall toll 

And little stars shall wink. 
While Ganymede fills the bowl. 

We'll drink and drink and drink. 

So long as hand can clasp with hand. 

So long as hearts beat true, 
So long, as friend by friend shall stand 

And brewery men shall brew. 
We'll raise the foaming tankard high 

And glass on glass we'll clink ; 
Gambrinus we will glorify 

And drink and drink and drink. 



31 




CLUBS. 

(^ Burletta.) 

I. 300 B. c. 

When Caitis Flaccus Gracchus, in, the palmy days of Rome, 
Was found non est inventus by the matron of his home, 
And the old clepsydra gurgled out the hour of 3 a. m., 
She set her teeth and grhnly said, "Per Jovis, he's a gem !" 

But Caius, full uf doubts and fears and old Falernian wine, 

Tacked cris-cross down the Appian way, all in the pale 
moonshine, 

Till the matron grabbed his toga and hissed, "Now, mind 
you, bub, 

This endeth your attendance at the Ne Plus Ultra club." 





IL 1600 A. D. 

John Smith, a doughty captain (Odds! how rare and 

strange the name!), 
Set out to show an Indian chief (Powhatan, known to 

fame) 
The beauties of fire-water, blanket deeds and all that thing, 
Till the noble red man countered and played on the Jack a 
king. 
"Take this bludgeon, smash his caput," was the order; but 

a maid — 
His daughter Pocahontas— cried out, "Pa, I'm not afraid; 
I'll take him for my husband; and it's such a narrow rub, 
I do not think he'll ever want to see another club." 





III. 1903 0. g! 
The woods are full of clubs to-day of every kind and name, 
Of pious clubs and devilish clubs and clubs that play THE 

GAME, 
There are press clubs and the coal club that boosts up the 

anthracite ; 
Athletic and dramatic clubs and a few that run all night. 
Tis said at some they even drink! and gudewives stand 

aghast, 
As did the Roman matron in the palmy days long past. 
Alarm ye not, fair ladies ! Ne'er a peril need ye fear : 
Just send your husbands to the clubs that serve no drink 
but BEER. 




L.tfC. 




33 



A GRAIN OF BARLEY FROM 
THE PYRAMIDS. 

And so, minute epitome of growth and life, 

Thou hast for centuries been snugly lying 
Within the mummied folds of some fair wife 

Or royal husband, time and change defying. 
Thy fellows grew beside the sacred Nile 

In si^ht of Sphinx, of monolith and column. 
And, far away, stretched out for mile on mile 

The sad, mysterious desert, wild and solemn. 

The blue Nile-lily floated on the stream, 

The tall bullrushes bent to kiss the water : 
I see it now, as in some lotus-dream, 

The infant prophet and old Pharaoh's daughter. 
And more I see, O ancient barley grain, 

The flying centuries still back pursuing, 
I see thy fellows in the mash-tub lain; 

For Egypt knew the noble art of brewing. 

The hop, 'tis true, they had not, but the beer 

Was doubtless good and sold for fancy prices ; 
The "Scarabaeus" brand, perhaps, most dear, 

Or that named "Ptolemy" or "Pasht" or "Isis." 
There's nothing new on earth ! The old stays on ; 

I smack my lips, a twentieth century sinner, 
As Thothmes did four thousand years agone 

At some "old Scarabseus" with his dinner. 

Four thousand years from now an alien race 

May roam these vales and hills and mountain ranges, 
Build cities at the Rocky Mountains' base 

And slaughter lambs where now the Stock Exchange is 
But. like the nyramids, one thinsr will stand, 

The old and new inseparably linking, — 
The barley grain will ripen in the land 

And there'll be brewing still, and also drinking. 





H261 78 



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